We pulled into what looked like New York’s Flatiron Building had it been trimmed in jade and brass: the Sensitive Inquiries Office HQ.
Once inside, Speer led me down into the building’s bowels. “You mentioned leads. How did you drum them up?” I asked. They hadn’t cell phone intercepts, cameras on every building with facial recognition software, or any of the other standard counter-terrorism tools afforded by modern society. The island was a black hole to any intelligence apparatus geared towards signal intercepts. It was why, the FBI and NSA figured, Talib had come here.
“Simple,” Speer said, leading me down a gaslit hallway. The doors we passed looked thick enough to hold off invading medieval armies. “We have only twenty-six Arabs in all of Steam Pointe, fifteen of whom are here in Boothcross. None of them are citizens, so naturally we didn’t need a warrant to search their residences. Of those fifteen, three were found in possession of pro-jihadist books or pamphlets.”
“Like what? A Koran?” I asked.
“Don’t be stupid. That is merely anti-Western. Despite what common sense and fourteen hundred years of inter-civilizational conflict might suggest, such a tome would not be dispositive of conspiracy. In this investigation, at any rate.”
My voice was loud enough to echo down the hall. “Race might not be dispositive either.”
“True,” he conceded, “but irrelevant. We have an Arab terrorist hiding in this country. If he were to find assistance here, it would most likely be amongst those with whom he shares language, culture, and religion, not to mention physical appearance. If you were looking for a Chinese spy, absent any other information would you begin in a given city’s Irish pubs, or its Chinatown?”
I felt like I had landed on another planet. Such obvious profiling would have meant a lawsuit back home, and dismissal from any police force.
He paused, awaiting my reply. I didn’t give it to him.
“Irish pubs, obviously,” he said before opening one of the doors.
Inside was a thin man in a black suit. He looked younger than Speer, and his skin was such a phosphorescent white, it was as if he never left this basement room.
“Special Agent Mackenzie Hoff, this is Inspector Deacon Harker,” Speer announced. “He handles our interrogations.”
“I guess that explains the black suit,” I said.
“Actually, I borrowed this from our guillotine fellow,” Harker said. “My other suits are being laundered.”
I almost thought he was serious until Speer erupted laughing. Harker’s thin face broke into a smile, and he extended his hand. I put mine out as well, but to my surprise he bowed to kiss it like a French courtier. “I hope you don’t find this offensive,” he said, “but such is the nature of our rather traditional etiquette.”
Stateside, guys might open doors on the first few dates, but a year in, it was a miracle if they didn’t burp in front of you. I got the impression that a man like Harker never would.
I suppose I should have been bothered that I wasn’t being treated like one of the boys, but it was better than being treated like a lesser life form by Speer. “Thank you,” I said, looking sideways at Speer. “You’re actually the first person to extend such courtesy on this trip.”
“Don’t consider Hiram representative,” Harker said. “Many Pointers enjoy chatting with the few Americans they meet.”
“Only because they haven’t spent as much time amongst them as I have,” Speer cut in. “By the bye, isn’t there a terrorist we’re supposed to be hunting? Why yes, I recall that there is. Did you get anything out of those three Arabs, Deke?”
There were two desks in the subcellar office, both with papers neatly stacked on them. Harker pointed to the documents on one table. “This is what we found when we tossed their apartments. Two of them had receipts for several questionable Middle East charities. We also found printed-out Internet journal articles they must have brought from home in the ‘Kill Jews, Kill Christians, they’re the root of all your life’s failings’ genre.”
Internet journal articles. I guess he meant blog posts. These would have had to be printed out by Talib before he came here since computers were illegal in Steam Pointe.
“In other words,” Harker continued, “they were more like armchair-Mujahidin than the actual thing. Their responses to questioning were consistent with that interpretation. One of them even cried during our discussion. I am having them held pending deportation.”
“And the third?” Speer asked.
“The third is a man named Omar Khaliq.” Harker picked up a sheaf of papers from the other table and handed them to Speer. “He is more the genuine article.”
Speer looked them over with a mild look of disgust before handing them to me.
These sheets were a heavier bond, more like parchment than anything you would stick in a laser printer. I could feel the slight imprint where the old-fashioned mechanical press had stamped the words, and the seal of the Steam Pointe government.
The first couple pages were a list of all incoming cargo vessels. One listing was circled in pencil, a ship out of New York carrying, among other things, helium. It had arrived in Steam Pointe three days earlier.
“The ship we think Talib escaped on,” I said. “This man knew.”
“Khaliq probably picked him up at the docks himself,” Speer said.
“What are these other documents?”
“Those,” Speer said with a grimace, “outline the government’s production of hydrogen, our security protocols for same, and the airship routes that employ hydrogen zeppelins.”
Hadn’t these people heard of the Hindenburg? “You use hydrogen blimps?”
“Rigid airships,” Harker corrected.
“Helium has to be imported from the United States, and so is relatively expensive,” Speer explained. “Hydrogen we can cheaply produce here through industrial electrolysis. We use the helium for military and passenger airships, and any others whose routes take them over populated areas. Hydrogen primarily gets used for industrial heavy-lifters traveling just off the coast.”
“Talib wouldn’t need any of his plastic explosive or electronic detonators. All the explosives he needs are right here,” I said.
“If they’re so interested in finding accessible explosives, it follows that Talib isn’t here to hide. He’s planning another attack,” Speer said.
“But what would be the target?” Harker asked. “We’re in the middle of the Indian Ocean, far from any vital international sea lanes. The only American interest close-at-hand that I can think of is their consulate.”
Speer shook his head. “I don’t think the target is American. I think it’s us.”
“How do you figure? It’s not like you guys committed troops to Afghanistan or Iraq,” I said.
Speer shrugged. “We’re not Muslim. Need they another justification?”
“Well then,” Harker said before I could get into an argument with Speer, “I suppose that means I should continue my conversation with Mr. Khaliq. I was just taking a breather when you all came by.”
Harker led us into a darkened room. I could sense more than see its cathedral-like scale. From high above, a single point of light — too bright for a gaslight, this was electrical — stared down onto the floor like the angry eye of God. Inside the light’s cone was a man strapped to a chair. It made me think about old pictures I’d seen of Thomas Edison’s electric chair.